


To the Victor, the Spoils

by Rynfinity



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-17 23:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4684901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He is a seidrmancer without equal, the healers say," Thor tells the young guard.  "Surely he can work the knots out of his own hair."</p><p>~</p><p>Thor and Loki meet as young adults, in wartime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Victor, the Spoils

A fair bit of gold still sparkles here and there, despite the blood and grime. The creature must have been dressed to rival the finest of courtesans before the start of the fighting. "Jotun warrior?" Ove makes a derisive noise in the back of his throat. He makes it often; it's one of the many things Petter dislikes about him. "More like Jotun _whore_." He pokes at the limp prisoner, first with the broad side of his battle axe and then - when the creature's head lolls to one side, its half-open eyes rolled back into its head so far that only half-moons of red show between its thick lashes - with the plated toe of his boot. A length of chain slithers off the prisoner's bluish torso and tumbles down onto the straw-strewn floor with a dull clunk. "Huh."

Petter looks where Ove's pointing. At least, he thinks he is. There's really nothing to see. A long, shallow gash – one of many - curls along the Jotun's hip, running from the crest of its hipbone to a scant handbreadth above its knee. The wound has clotted off and started to scab - it's been the better part of a day since they'd brought this creature in off the battlefield and dumped it unceremoniously onto the floor of this cell - and the once-fresh red blood trailing down its shin is dried black and flaking. "It's a cut," he says. "Albeit not a particularly bad one. We're at war; injuries do tend to happen. What of it?" The most noteworthy thing about this particular Jotun, as far as Petter can see, is that it’s not much taller than they are.

Ove laughs. "It's a wonder you ever get laid, you mean," he corrects, squatting down and nudging the creature's flaccid penis with his gloved hand. The prisoner's legs are splayed wide apart at the knees, one crossed over the other at the ankles. "You know what they say about these monsters, that they're _both_? Not man, not woman; both," he clarifies. Yes, of course, Petter has heard this said. Not that he has firsthand experience; personally, he normally finds himself far too thoroughly occupied dodging their weapons to have time to devote to peeking under their loincloths. "But not this one. Despite the finery, this one is as male as you or me."

"As me, try." It's Petter's turn to laugh. "For I'm not the one with a hand against its length, now, am I?"

Ove's face twists into the beginnings of an ugly snarl. Whatever he was about to say dies in his throat, though, as the unmistakable clang of Gugnir's struck shaft rings through the dungeon.

Petter is still laughing as he makes his obsequience, half out of amusement and half out of fear. As the king approaches, he finds himself only just barely able to stop it.

~

"The prisoner sleeps yet," one of the royal counselors muses. "Perhaps he is more gravely injured than we initially suspected."

Eir shakes her head. Her healers' robes are streaked with gore. _Wartime makes soldiers of us all_ , Odin thinks. It's days like this he longs for peace. "This one is a very powerful sorcerer," she explains. "His body fights desperately to heal itself, but the damping shackles prevent the use of seidr entirely. It is more than likely that battle of energies which keeps him unconscious."

Odin sighs. It takes scant genius to see where this is going. "And were you to heal him, would the _battle of energies_ you describe subside?"

"I think not, your majesty."

"And in containment?" Neither of the holding cells is occupied presently; they've not caught a seidrmancer for some time.

Eir nods. "Yes. With the shackles off, he will heal... and wake, I'm certain."

Odin needs to be able to speak with this particular prisoner, to understand what brought him here. It's not every day they bring a Jotun prince to heel, not even such a small one. "Fine," he says, with reluctance he's careful not to show. "So be it."

~

"I have to watch a prisoner sleep." Thor is too annoyed to bother keeping the incredulity out of his voice. Everyone else will be celebrating Asgard’s latest victory with flagons of mead and platters of boar, while he alone goes hungry. Okay, it won't be _just_ him, but the prisoner doubtless deserves to go wanting. "Seriously, father? Why cannot one of the-."

Odin glares at him. Thor has no memory of his father two-eyed; at times like this he considers himself fortunate to be facing down only the one. "Not any prisoner; a prince. Sadly," the king says, icy cold. "I do not remember asking your opinion."

Thor hefts his hammer. "So be it," he spits, with every ounce of frost _he_ can muster. He gestures to two of the guards, the ones standing by with the prisoner hanging limp between them. "Lead on. I’ll follow."

By the time their makeshift entourage reaches bottom of the stairs, Thor knows they have another task to accomplish before he seals the cell. "The prisoner reeks," he says flatly, wrinkling his nose in distaste. If he's going to be spending the better part of the night down here, he doesn’t intend to be gagging on the stench of filth and old blood. "Wash him."

"It," one of the guards grumbles under his breath.

Thor grabs the man. He's in a foul mood; with his good humor goes his patience. "He is a prince of Jotunheim. You will respect his station." He gives the guard a little shake. "And if that is too much for your delicate sensibilities, consider this: you will respect mine."

He lets go.

The guard drops to the floor and prostrates himself in a way that would be a lot more satisfying were not Thor missing a feast to see it. "Be gone," Thor tells him. "With due haste. I have had my fill of you."

“Yes, sir.” The offender scrambles back to standing and then hurries away. The other guard shuffles his feet nervously as the sound of thudding footfalls fades into the distance.

"What is your name," Thor asks. This guard is young, hardly more than a boy.

"I am called Petter, your highness."

Thor nods. "Fetch a basin, Petter, and some water."

~

They work their way methodically down the prisoner's body – from head to ankles, except they skip past the groin and the cleft between the buttocks and save them for last - in much the same manner they've cleaned far too many of their own wounded men. Thor carefully catalogs the myriad scrapes and lacerations. The prisoner's body is lean and strong, its long muscles lax in unconsciousness but none the less obvious for it. His thick black hair is a hopeless rat's nest, one Petter and Thor inspect closely enough to determine the blood caking it largely not his own before giving up and simply dousing it with pitcher after pitcher of water. Only once the runoff is tolerably clear do they move on.

"He is a seidrmancer without equal, the healers say," Thor tells Petter. "Surely he can work the knots out of his own hair." Petter actually manages a smile.

~

"There," Thor says when the worst of it is done. The prisoner is no garden flower, still, but it's no longer physically painful to be near him. "Thank you for your service, Petter. You are a good man, and you have made my evening far more tolerable. Go, return to the feasting and have your fun."

~

The prince is still deeply unconscious, but Thor knows this is one time he simply cannot be too careful. Before releasing anything he carefully fastens a heavy metal footcuff around the prisoner’s slender ankle. The chain ends in a sturdy eye that disappears into the thick spell work lining the walls of the chamber. The whole arrangement is no match for serious magic, for certain, but – in the event something goes wrong - it should buy him sufficient time to clear the cell.

Even so, Thor sprints for the door as soon as the shackles click open. If nothing else, he has no plans to die tonight. Not while everyone else is busily feasting.

~

He needn't have worried, as it turns out. Some hours later - Thor's lost track of time, but it's been long enough that he can no longer suppress his own near-constant yawning – while the prisoner’s dusky blue skin is once more largely unblemished, he still sees no signs of waking. Perhaps Eir is wrong, and the prisoner has in truth suffered damage more dire than anticipated.

Or maybe it’s just a question of time.

~

Thor startles awake. Instinct takes over; he's on his feet near-instantly, hammer to hand and heart thumping.

 _Oh_.

From beyond the barrier, the prisoner is _watching_ him.

"I hope you slept well, Prince Thor, beloved son of Odin," the Jotun offers, bowing from the hips and even that only slightly. "I must say, the accommodations in here are somewhat- _lacking_."

"Identify yourself," Thor snaps. He is irritated (with himself, yes) for having been caught out napping. "And mind to whom it is you speak."

The prisoner tsks. "Am I the only one who's done his homework?" He smirks, teeth stark white against his purple lips. "I am Prince Loki, son of Laufey. I would say _pleased to meet you,_ but I fear that would be a lie."

Thor frowns. The prisoner is no doubt baiting him; it will not serve him well to fall for it. "What brings you here?" he asks, sternly.

The prisoner- _Prince Loki_ cocks his head. Although he’s well and thoroughly healed, his hair is still hopelessly tangled. "You're rather rude, aren't you? Fine," he goes on as Thor fights down the urge to slap the smile off his sharp-featured face. "If you can't be bothered wasting time on pleasantries, I guess I shan't bother either." He grins again, but his red-black eyes are hard. "What brought me here? Besides the Allfather's _charming_ lackeys, you mean? That's too easy. I'm here to kill your father."

Thor stiffens.

"Oh, don't look so shocked," Loki scoffs. "Surely you see I’m not here for the pleasure of your company."

"So funny you think you’re being," Thor says. “I scarcely think you’re in any position to be behaving with such disrespect.” Loki's eyes narrow. "Now tell me why you're really here, before I summon the guards and have them beat it out of you."

"You don't believe me?" Loki steps up to the barrier, ignoring the snapping and popping where his naked skin brushes against it. He bares his teeth. "That's quite the risk to take, no? Gambling with the life of a king?"

"Hah," Thor huffs. "As if the likes of you could ever harm him." He can feel his temper spiraling up and up, dangerously close to the breaking point.

"Oooh, you wound me." Loki clutches his chest dramatically. "And with that, I fear I have heard and seen more than enough of you. Leave me be." He spins on his heel and stalks off to the back of his cell.

Thor does much the same, stomping away with both fists clenched in impotent rage. He is nearly halfway up the stairs before he remembers: as the crown prince of Asgard, he does not take orders from the spoils of war.


End file.
